The Artist's Daughter
by Fudgyokra
Summary: This couldn't be happening. She had been too eager, too obvious… She'd mapped out such a careful plan, and this woman before her had caught her in the act. "I'm doing it for the good of the people," she tried to explain, only to be answered with a flat, "I don't care about that." 1920s AU.


**The Artist's Daughter**

**A/N: **Pairings I've crossed off my oneshot checklist thus far- AleNoah, Heathsay, and Doey. Now I've finally progressed to one of my two favorites for this show! I still have more on the list, which I'll (probably) get around to.

* * *

_Toronto, 1926_

When she'd first entered the business, it was for a purely personal reason. Thieving was less for profit and more for the thrill back then, after her sixteenth year was soured with the demise of two relationships. Both of her asshole ex-boyfriends turned out to be weak in their promises and even weaker in their romancing, leaving her without the sense of adventure she craved. The only reasonable action on her part was to take it. Grab the devil by the horns, so to speak. The adventure was out there, and it was _hers._

Nowadays, it was just as much a business as it was an art. Courtney liked what she did, and she was damn good at it, too. The only things that had changed since she was sixteen was that she now did it for the money, and she no longer had to deal with that tool of a farm-boy, Scott.

The guy was nice and all, but he was no Fitzgerald, that's for sure. He barely made enough to support himself on that farm, let alone Courtney. Last she'd heard of him, he'd become a smuggler and chiefly resided in the United States, though he still dropped by to visit his family once in a while.

She couldn't be bothered to worry about his predicament anymore, however, considering she had bigger things to tackle. At this particular moment, "bigger things" entailed a very rich artist in a very rich-looking estate…

Without so much as a tentative halt, she knocked on the front door of said estate and waited patiently for the man to answer. This took some time (she guessed it took a while to navigate such a sizable building), but when he finally did pull the door open, she noticed his hand—large, square, and decorated with jeweled rings—before anything else.

The man regarded Courtney from under thick, dark brows. "May I help you?"

"I'm terribly sorry, sir," she began sweetly, already formulating her lie based on the party she knew was currently taking place in his home. "I'm one of the performers. I got a little caught up in my previous affair of the evening."

"And what might that've been?" he asked, his expression typical of a man unaccustomed to the showy flapper attire she'd disguised herself in.

"I got stopped by a guy just too desperate to hear my singing." Here, she flashed her practiced crowd-pleasing smile. "But I told him I don't sing on the streets. Only for the grandest of parties."

At that, the corner of the man's mouth quirked up. "I see. You're very welcome to step inside. I suspect your show will be brilliant."

"Thank you, sir. I promise it will be." This wasn't exactly a lie. It _would _be brilliant—it just wouldn't be a show.

When the artist stepped aside and extended an arm to gesture her in, she took her opportunity with confidence, like she always did. Everything from here on out would be a piece of cake with everyone around her chattering and laughing and staggering, completely absorbed in their own worlds. They'd never notice their possessions going missing, not in such a blissfully unaware state.

In just half an hour, her bag, which she'd securely fastened to her thigh, contained quite a sum of money, a pearl necklace, two watches, and even a ruby ring. She always felt a bit guilty when she took rings, but she knew that it was likely to be gambled away in this environment, anyway. Rings were special; they didn't deserve that fate.

She'd just tucked away a flask of moonshine that was sure to fetch her a handsome profit when someone daintily tapped her left shoulder and nearly stopped her heart in the process.

"I don't suppose you're going to drink that before you perform?"

When Courtney turned around, her breath hitched in her throat for a full second at the sight of the thin, pale girl standing before her, dressed in a gunmetal-gray beaded dress and black Mary Jane kitten heels. She looked like a goddess with her large, dark eyes, deep burgundy lipstick, and short black hair.

"I," she said after an awkward minute, "I do prefer champagne."

The goddess-girl offered her an intrigued smile. "Me too." Under the chandelier lights, those dark eyes glittered. "My father happened to come upon some, as a matter of fact. If you happen to have a talent for keeping secrets, I may let you join me in the parlor for a drink."

_Her father? _

Oh! If Courtney's memory served her right (which it always did), this was Gwen, the artist's eldest child, heiress to his fortune, and, against the family tradition, a very modern woman. So modern that it was rumored to infuriate her father, who was allegedly considering giving his life's earnings to Gwen's younger brother, instead.

"What do you think?" the potential heiress asked as she raised her eyebrows.

"I think it sounds magnificent," Courtney answered just as a light bulb went off in her head. If she could steal some of that champagne, she could make so much money…

Gwen led the way to the parlor, which was a huge change in scenery from the packed, darkly-colored living area. This room was painted and furnished completely in a dusty rose hue, offset only by the gold chandelier and white wooden trim bisecting each wall. Even the carpet was pale pink, a very worn-looking shade for such a well-kempt floor.

Inside, there were only five other people besides Gwen and Courtney: three men, one of them Gwen's dad, and two women, both of whom were clad in navy blue tasseled dresses and gray stockings, their shoes apparently abandoned.

Courtney's own white, frill-less dress suddenly seemed a little understated.

"Ah, we were just discussing you, darling," Gwen's dad announced with a throaty laugh. He waved his empty glass theatrically. "You and the lovely performer ought to procure a drink!"

Courtney smiled politely, but Gwen only stared fixedly at the buffet table while she poured two glasses of champagne. "It has been a lovely night so far," she said.

"Absolutely right!" The artist's group continued with their merry chatter, and he was quick to rejoin the conversation. The moment he had, Gwen had left the room through a door Courtney hadn't even noticed was there at first. Briskly, she followed the other girl.

The two of them climbed the stairs to the mansion's tower, which was abandoned for the time being and provided the perfect opportunity for Gwen to unload a drink into Courtney's hand and say, "I want you to take me with you."

Silence. It took a moment for Courtney to find her voice again. "What do you mean?"

"I've been watching you since the moment you arrived. I know you're not a performer."

Here, the brunette switched into one of her top defense tactics—one she liked to call her charm mode. "I assure you, I'm an excellent entertainer. I take pride in what I do, you know." She waved a hand in an airy manner.

This did little to dissuade the other. "You have a bag filled with trinkets and money under your dress. I saw you reach for it almost ten times this evening."

Courtney swallowed a lump that had suddenly formed in her throat. This couldn't be happening. She had been too eager, too obvious… She'd mapped out such a careful plan, and this woman before her had caught her in the act. "I'm doing it for the good of the people," she tried to explain, only to be answered with a flat, "I don't care about that."

Gwen glanced over her shoulder at the closed tower door, stepped closer to Courtney—so close that their noses nearly brushed—and whispered, "My father wants to give my inheritance to my brother. If he does that, I will be disgraced. I can't let my good name die with these arrogant, would-be royals. I know what's happening outside of Toronto. People are dying. Everyone is poor." The girl took a breath. "I never earned my riches, but you earn yours. I want to come with you. I don't care where you go."

Instead of answering, Courtney swallowed her first mouthful of champagne, only to have it go down like a rock sliding in her throat. Gracelessly going into a coughing fit did little to calm her nerves, but it did bring Gwen's warm hands to her face, and that was something.

"Are you all right?" the dark-eyed girl asked. "I didn't mean to scare you. I only thought…" She let her hands drop sooner than Courtney would've liked. They were warm, soft. Scott's had always been rough with calluses and this had been pleasantly different.

"I'm fine, thank you."

"You're my only chance."

"Your only chance?" Courtney held the other girl's stare evenly. "You don't even know my name."

At this, Gwen looked away.

"You don't know anything about me."

"I know that you're good. At pickpocketing. Making money. That's all I need right now."

Courtney narrowed her eyes. "How do I know that I can trust you?"

"If I left with you, I would be a runaway heiress. There isn't a reporter out there who wouldn't want to take that story. You would only have to say the right words to the right person and I would be gone."

Courtney hummed. That _was _a good point. Plus, a pretty traveling companion never hurt, jilted daughter or not.

"Would you help me sell off your father's liquor barrels tonight, after the party is over?"

Gwen nodded and smiled. "From the moment I saw you, I knew you'd be the one."

Blood rose to Courtney's face too abruptly for her to try and hide it, but Gwen didn't seem to mind. She did, however, coyly add, "You're the one that's going to help me get away from here, I mean."

"Of course." The brunette tucked a stand of hair behind her ear, reached into her bag, and pressed something into Gwen's hand, which she promptly folded her fingers over. "I'll meet you in the garden an hour before sunrise."

"Just an hour?"

"That's all the time we will need and more." A brief smile graced the thief's face. "And in case you were dying to know, my name is Courtney."

"It was nice to meet you, Courtney. Thank you."

"Thank me when we leave tonight. Don't be late."

With that, she finally dropped the other girl's hand and left the tower, tailed by the echo of clicking heels.

Gwen uncurled her fingers and marveled at the gift Courtney had deposited in her palm. It was absolutely gorgeous, she thought. A pretty little ruby ring that sat in her hand like a promise.


End file.
